


Milk and Beans

by Boton



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Gen, Grocery Shopping, Humor, Post-Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, tesco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 17:26:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6966382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boton/pseuds/Boton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock fulfills a promise to John in order to demonstrate that he is a good flatmate.</p><p>ETA: Thanks to Jolie_Black for an impromptu Brit pick.  Read the comments if you like to nerd out on words!</p><p>Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and his universe are the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Sherlock is the creation of the BBC and its partners, and of co-creators Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. This work is for my pleasure and that of my readers; I am not profiting from the intellectual property of those creators listed above.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Milk and Beans

**Author's Note:**

> Thematically, this pairs with my story "Risotto," which occurs somewhere before the "leftover risotto" conversation in The Great Game. (But you don't need to read "Risotto" to get this.) This story would occur after the confrontation at the pool, and therefore in the first bit of A Scandal in Belgravia.

JOHN: I won’t be in for tea. I’m going to Sarah’s. There’s still some of that risotto left in the fridge.  
SHERLOCK (his eyes still fixed on the TV): Mm!  
(John stops at the door.)  
JOHN: Uh, milk. We need milk.  
SHERLOCK: I’ll get some.  
JOHN (turning back with a look of disbelief on his face): Really?!  
SHERLOCK: Really.  
JOHN: And some beans, then?  
SHERLOCK (still not looking away from the TV): Mm.

Transcript credit to Ariane DeVere: http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/45923.html?thread=608099

##

Sherlock eased the door of 221 Baker Street shut, careful not to make any noise until he was safely on the pavement. While John’s room was on the second floor and quite isolated from street noise, Sherlock had just gotten his flatmate to agree to a bit of a rest, and he wasn’t going to chance waking him.

The incident at the pool had been a rollercoaster of adrenaline that had left both John and Sherlock exhausted, and the pair of them were happy to return home and begin to make sense of what had transpired. It had also left Sherlock with a peculiar feeling that he was beginning to suspect was guilt. If he hadn’t indulged in this game of cat and mouse with Moriarty, John would not have been placed in danger, and he would not have found himself making an unspoken pact with John across a tile floor on a deserted swimming pool deck to die together rather than let a criminal mastermind go free. The fact that all three men exited the pool alive seemed beside the point at the moment.

Sherlock knew that he was not an easy person to live with; his experience living with others at boarding school and uni had taught him that. This was why he insisted on his own place in Montague Street, and why he had never considered getting a flatmate as an adult until Mrs. Hudson suggested he do so before coming to live with her in Baker Street. And, if Sherlock were honest with himself, he knew that John had tolerated a lot of behaviors that were typically not expected from one’s flatmate, even if one didn’t count placing his life in danger.

Well, there was one thing Sherlock could do to ease his guilt. Before the whole pool incident blew up (“bad choice of words,” he thought, as he critiqued his own running mental narrative), John had indicated that they needed milk and beans, and Sherlock was dimly aware that flatmates typically split the grocery shopping duties. Until now, Sherlock had been content to let John and Mrs. Hudson divide up the job, limiting his own exposure to handing over a credit card when needed. But today, he could at least do this small chore.

Entering the sliding doors of Tesco, Sherlock grabbed a carrier basket and strode back to the dairy section. There, he was confronted with a dizzying array of possible choices: whole, semi-skimmed, skimmed, non-homogenized, organic, soy milk, goat’s milk. How did anyone ever choose when all they needed was just “milk?” 

Well, there must be a scientific approach to determining what was best. Sherlock reviewed the various studies he had read about possible links between dietary fat intake and elevated lipid levels, investigations into whether the smaller fat particles in homogenized milk could contribute to a greater risk for atherosclerosis, and comparisons of the nutrient profiles of cow’s milk versus goat milk. (It was surprising how often understanding the pathogenesis of coronary heart disease was relevant to crime work.) He really should have constructed a spreadsheet comparing each option across several different criteria, perhaps assigning a score for each per factor and then weighting the various factors by reliability of the evidence, generating a composite score that would determine which milk to buy.

He almost turned around and went home to begin the analysis, when he remembered something. Mrs. Hudson always bought the bottle with the red border. He scanned the shelves and quickly found one with a red label that looked familiar, placed a carton in his basket, and proceeded on to the tinned foods section.

Here, once again, he found himself confronting more options than seemed necessary for a product like tinned beans, and he had no research in his mental files that he could consult to help him make the decisions. He also found himself in the rare circumstance of confronting a subject on which he had absolutely no opinion.

Contrary to what many thought, Sherlock knew his way around a kitchen; the recent risotto experiment should have proven that. However, as he did with most things, Sherlock liked to restrict his participation in food preparation to things he knew he could do better than anyone, and leave the plebian, uninteresting tasks to someone else. So, while he could make a perfect risotto, a fluffy quiche, and a creamy flan, he left beans on toast to John and fish and chips to the chip shop around the corner. He was in absolutely no position to determine what brand and flavor profile of beans John preferred.

“May I help you with something, sir?” the young employee asked as she saw him pondering the shelf of beans. Sherlock seized the opportunity.

“Yes. Yes, you can. I need to know what kind of beans John buys.”

“John?” the girl asked, confused. “I don’t know John, and I really don’t know what he buys.”

“Of course you do, don’t be insipid,” Sherlock spat back.

“No, sir, I don’t,” she stammered. “I don’t know what our customers usually buy; is he a regular here?”

“Yes, he is, but that really doesn’t matter,” Sherlock said, taking the girl’s arm and marching her up to the chip and pin machines. 

“Look, see those self-checkout stations? Those are nothing less than data-gathering terminals. As each customer scans their items, the point of sale system keeps track of the items purchased and conveys it to your corporate inventory system, automatically reordering items you are out of and adjusting quantities on items that are particularly popular. Did you think all of those boxes just appeared on your loading dock by magic?”

The girl gaped at him; Sherlock continued.

“Further, each purchase is a record keyed to an individual customer and accessible by credit card number. All you need to do is look up the items purchased on John’s card, and you can tell me what beans to buy.”

The girl grasped for an objection she could make and appeared to settle on one. “Sir, I can’t look up purchases on someone else’s card; I think that’s illegal.”

“OK, fine,” Sherlock said, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his wallet. “Both John and Mrs. Hudson have shopped here using my card, and they’ve each purchased beans in the last month. Just tell me the brand and type of tinned beans that are linked to my card number, and I will purchase those and be on my way.”

“That’s not really how . . . I can’t really look up . . . Maybe I should get the manager for you?” the girl finished weakly, wilting under the sheer force of will and intellect and piercing blue eyes all being directed at her in the quest for tinned beans.

Finally, Sherlock broke eye contact. “Fine,” he said, turning on his heel. “I’ll just buy one of each.” 

Sometime later, laden with two bags filled with a carton of milk and 14 different tins of beans, Sherlock returned to 221B, certain that he had finally learned how to be a good flatmate.


End file.
